


Diamonds (Let's rob a bank)

by thelostrocketeer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Rape, Bank Robbery, Boyd in passing, Gen, Isaac and Erica are twinz, LOL., Sorry Not Sorry, bank heist, crime pays, werewolves? what werewolves?, will add characters as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostrocketeer/pseuds/thelostrocketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is a man on a mission. He's going to steal some money. A lot of money. With the help of a bunch of teenage delinquents, of course. </p><p>Basically: That fic where there are no werewolves and they rob a bank.<br/>Rating may change with time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. let's rob a bank, a big big bank.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Emily and Esther.  
> Somewhat inspired by [this](http://rodenn.tumblr.com/post/28311067058/teen-wolf-genre-swap-crime-comedy-show-i-have) post on tumblr.

It starts (as many stories do) with a plane, arriving in the dark of the night; the blinking lights on its tail glinting in the darkness as it touches down on a private airstrip fifty miles outside of Beacon Hills.

It’s a small plane, not carrying much, just a three people and a brushed silver attaché case. The pilot and her co-pilot drag their fibreglass suitcases toward the sleek black limo parked near the runway and their only passenger carries the attaché case to the manager’s office where the manager waits with his client, the aged gentleman who rented the airstrip.

He enters the room and the manager gets a whiff of champagne and aged cheese, much like most of the other cliental who hire the airstrip with their fancy private jets. The passenger wears a well-tailored grey suit; his hair is dark and slicked back, shiny.

The man in the suit nods at the client, or rather, his boss, and passes him the attaché case then right back walks out.

The airstrip’s manager jokingly asks his client what’s in it, but his client just frowns at him and pays him the full rental fee. In cash. Then he asks the manager to leave the room.

The manager wants to protest, but an extra thousand dollars is slipped into his breast pocket.

The grey gentleman locks the door as the manager leaves the room and places the attaché case on the table. He opens it and smiles at its contents.

\--

Meet Derek Hale.

Twenty-three, Sagittarius. According to his friends, he enjoys brooding, planning and watching others in their sleep. Beacon Hill’s Resident Sourwolf, all-round con-man and smooth talker. Built like a monster truck.

Derek is currently downing another beer as the frat boys around him in the bar whoop, wolf-whistle and howl, cheering him on.

“Fifteeeeennnnn!” he yells, sloshing the bubbly liquids all over his shirt. This was a new shirt, dammit.

Derek doesn’t usually drink, but when he does, it’s go big or go home. Or at least that’s what he told the head Douchebag who got him into this college bar anyway. The one who was far too easily convinced that they take Econ together, even though Derek has never before even set foot in the building that houses the Economic lectures. Or any of the lecture halls at all. Where do they keep those, anyway?

This goes on for a while, but faking douchebaggery is after all a full time job.

Also it’s not just that he’s not actually from this college (or from any college), he’s just collecting the credit card information of the boys currently getting more and more smashed with every round of shots he buys them.

It’s not hard, really. These boys are not shy of flashing plastic when they’re sober. When they’re drunk, it’s only a matter of making stupid bets that go like “first one to tap out buys the next round” and paying attention when the bartender comes to collect. Simple.

The fact that they use their credit cards to pay for drinks makes Derek feel rather dirty. But whatever-

He adds seven more rich-college-boy credit accounts to his collection tonight.

x

When he opens the door to the warehouse, the first thing he hears is moaning. That and the R-rated sound of someone’s mouth on another person’s body part that is usually hidden by clothing.

“Damnit, Jackson. I thought I told you not to do that on the new sofa,” he says as he flicks on the lights and is greeted with a smirk curling at the end of a blonde haired boy’s mouth. The brunette between his legs pulls her mouth back with an obscene pop. 

This is Jackson Whittemore.

Nineteen years old, Gemini, loves fast bikes and big breasts. Blonde hair, blue eyes, killer smirk. Loaded with cash, not afraid to blow it; trust funds do come in handy sometimes.  He sometimes handles Derek’s finances, that and annoys him half to death with his tendency to get caught in situations similar to this one.

It’s not his fault he’s pretty, is it now?

Anyway, his parents taught him to share what he enjoys (among which are money and alcohol), and moaning under the oral ministrations of a young lady who says she transferred to Harvard from King’s College in March (He knows that’s a line from a song but she’s got lips stung by bees and a tongue sent straight from hell to torture him, so there’s that) is _also_ something he enjoys, so why not share it with everyone, right?

“Sorry?” he offers with a shrug.

“Uh, you told me you were single,” says the brunette pouting between his legs indignantly.

“Look uh, Gina. This is my roommate, Derek,” says Jackson quickly. “He sometimes forgets to tell me what time he’s coming back, and it can be pretty inconveni-“

“My name is Jessica,” she says with a huff as she gets up, fixes her hair, picks up her (fake) Gucci (oh yes, Derek knows. Goodness knows he’s sold more than a few back in the day) bag and stalks out the door.

Derek rolls his eyes as Jackson stuffs his dick into his pants and zips them up.

“Close the door, won’t you? I’ve got the blood alcohol level of a raging frat boy and I need to sleep it off.”

“Here?” asks Jackson from the door.

“Peter would kick me out if I came home smelling like this,” says Derek with a shrug as he settles onto one of the tatty armchairs Laura insisted was “vintage” before she left.

Jackson checks his (very expensive, with a brand name that rhymes with FedEx) watch and yawns theatrically. 

“Well, now that you’ve ruined my night, I’m gonna go home and pretend that I’m not still half-hard and horny as hell, thank-you-very-much,” he says as he picks up his phone and his wallet.

“Goodnight, Jacks. Don’t get kidnapped ‘cause I sure as hell am not paying your ransom.”

“A face this pretty? You won’t get a ransom. I’ll be halfway to Thailand to be sold as a prostitute by the time you realise I’m gone.”

X

Derek wakes up with a hangover to the sound of his phone ringing-too sharp in his ear.

“’lo?” he mumbles.

“Good morning, Derek.”

“Alan?”

“Corner of Smith and Third, nine o’clock.”

“MmmppMhph”

“Be there, Derek.”

X

“Jackson.”

“Derek.”

They stand and look up at the building in front of them. They're in the more sophisticated part of town. The building sticks out like a sore thumb, all hard edges and shiny glass panels amongst grand old buildings and shopfronts, the face of modernization in a town where the newest bus was purchased in 1989. The shiny letters on the front of the building gleam in the midday sun, the arrival of summer coming ever closer.

“What are we doing here?” asks Jackson, eventually.

“What do you know about the Thomas National Bank?”

 “Tightest security in the whole of Northern California”

“That’s it?” Derek says, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, that’s all you really need to know, right?”

They watch the men and women streaming in and out of the busy bank and into the streets for a while before Derek speaks again. 

“What if I told you that we have a job?”

“You’re always telling me we have jobs. Then we do them.”

“We’re going to rob the Thomas National Bank.”

Jackson's eyes go wide, electric blue; his eyebrows shoot up into his hair.

 “That’s. You’ve got to be nuts-”

“What’s nuts whe-“

“I wasn’t finished, dumbass. I said ya’ gotta be nuts. And you’re gonna need a crew as nuts as you.”

Derek smirks at Jackson.

“So… who’ve you got in mind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this for... a while now. Updating may be slow because I'm bad at writing linearly, ehehe. This work/chapter/any part at all are subject to change if I feel the need. Hope you like it :)


	2. all the boys and the girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Jackson recruit the troops.

_“We’re gonna need a hacker”_

_“I know just the guy.”_

_-_

Derek makes his way up the wooden steps of the bleachers towards a boy lazing at the top, the sun gleaming overhead.

“Stiles, I believe you owe me a favour.”

The boy has short cropped hair, his helmet and his lacrosse stick tossed carelessly on the step below him. He opens his eyes and blinks up at Derek, grins a lazy cat smile and stretches.

Stiles Stilinski is eighteen, Sagittarius and has ADHD.

He also has lush lips and a pair of Bambi eyes, a retroussé nose and a childish air of nonchalance. He is currently not allowed in the state of Kentucky because he once accidentally (not accidentally) hacked the state’s website and forgot about it (set a virus to eat away at the history of the state) when he was distracted by trying to (purposefully went to) learn Gallifreyan.

He was fourteen.

His dad thought it was hilarious… until Stiles had to do a hundred hours of community service. Then again his dad was going through a… rough spot. With alcohol and grief, see. But that was then.

“Stiles” is also not actually his first name. Nobody knows his first name, except his dad and the school records and Stiles intends to keep it that way until kingdom come.

“Deeereeeek,” he yawns, stretching. “No hello?”

Derek glowers at him as Stiles sits up and turns around to face him. Stiles pulls him forward by the lapels of his leather jacket to peck his cheeks and smiles like a three year old getting tooth decay-inducing candy.

“There, now we’ve properly greeted each other, yes. What do you need?” says Stiles, swinging his leg over the bench so he’s facing the field.

Derek rolls his eyes and sits down next to him, watching the hustle and bustle on the field.

“I’ve come to claim my favour.”

“That, I sorta guessed, Der.”

Derek picks up Stiles’ lacrosse stick and restrings the head, his fingers moving nimbly. When he’s done he puts it back down and looks at Stiles’ profile.

“When do you get out for summer?” he asks.

“Next week.”

“Then it’s graduation, huh?”

“Yeah. Time flies when you’re not looking.”

A comfortable silence bred from years of the same fills the air as Stiles watches the lacrosse team train for the last game of the season and Derek thinks of a way to ask his friend to help him rob a bank. It’s almost funny, he thinks; asking Stiles to help him plan grand theft while _watching_ the high school lacrosse practice session he _should_ be taking part in from the bleachers. But then again Stiles’ brand of talents have always been much more suited for off-field uses anyway.

 “I… need your help to set up a bank heist,” offers Derek finally.

Stiles watches his team mate Vernon Milton goes-by-his-last-name Boyd take down an unfortunate freshman and then pinches himself. Twice.

Then his brain starts to fly, algorithms and complex code zooming across his mind’s eye, before he realises what he’s doing. What he’s going to do. The enormity of the task at hand. That is robbing a bank. What the actual fuck.

“What.” he finally says, punctuation be damned.

“You’re the best hacker I know.”

“Well… you know that I know that too. But seriously, a bank heist?” says Stiles slowly.

“It’s fifteen million apiece.”

“Derek, I call bullshit.”

“What, why-”

“You could live the rest of your life on stolen frat boy credit information what with your apparent fountain of youth. What would you need fifteen million in cash for?”

“I’m thinking about buying a house…?” says Derek sheepishly, spreading his hands in defeat.

Stiles rolls his eyes as he punches Derek’s outspread hands and says, “Whatever, I owe you one, anyway. When do we get started?”

Derek smiles, warm, lighting up his hazel eyes and pulls out a scrap of paper.

“This is the address. You know it?”

Stiles nods.

“See you there, sourwolf,” he says as he lies back down on the bleachers and closes his eyes.

“Bye, Stilinski” says Derek, grinning in amusement. He considers for a moment and then bends over and kisses Stiles’ forehead.

Stiles shoots up as his eyes pop open. His smile is as luminous as Derek’s is bemused. He gapes for a second and Derek takes his chance to leave, jogging down the steps.

“You remembered!” Stiles finally says to Derek’s retreating back.

Derek smiles to himself wanly.

\--

 

_“Know any drivers?”_

_“Yeah, I think I know someone.”_

-

_Need your help._

Scott McCall looks at the text from Jackson Whittemore and rolls his eyes. He drops it back onto the bed and continues doing his sit ups.

He’s at one hundred and fifteen when his phone beeps again.

_We need driver._

He’s nineteen with brown eyes, black hair and an oddly uneven jaw. Virgo. Drives like the devil. His hobbies also include playing X-box. He’s also apparently Jackson’s go-to guy for driving jobs. Again. Huh.

 ** _I can’t help you, man._** He texts back.

_Yea you can._

**_Can you remember what happened the last time I helped you out?_ **

The last time he did a driving job for Jackson, he nearly got slapped with jail time had it not been for Jackson’s dad, who argued that Scott was merely a child; incapable of thinking for himself and thus only deserved a couple months of juvie.

The only reason Scott had ever even spoken to Jackson again was because of the gleaming silver Porsche that turned up on his driveway the week he got back; Jackson’s personal brand of “I’m sorry,” because not once in the three years that they’d known each other had Jackson ever said that to _anyone._

_15mil. Take it/leave it._

Scott blinks.

Between work and racing at night, he knows he doesn’t really have much of a future in front of him, if he’s going to be honest with himself.

No college would take him in, not when his GPA took a nosedive that great over the course of his stay in juvie. And besides, after his dad left he and his mom didn’t have much money, so tuition was going to be a problem anyway. He wasn’t particularly skilled at lacrosse, so a sports scholarship was out. So off to work it was, waiting tables and manning check-out lines, doing whatever he could to take some of the load of his mother’s shoulders in the daytime, and occasionally racing for money and sometimes pot out on the outskirts of town in the night time.

He considers this for a while-

The rest of his life doing jobs that pay next to shit and watch his mother grow grey slaving away and worrying about him the nights he doesn’t come home because he’s risking his life and his licence drag racing… or a quick fifteen million and he’s set for life, shit jobs be damned and his mother’s retirement fund tripled in a day?

Sometimes he’s bitter about it, the fact that one stupid mistake at seventeen ruined his life. Then he remembers that he agreed to it, about taking responsibility for ones actions and all that grown up crap.

Sometimes he tells himself he’s never going to be stupid like that again-

But sometimes, he thinks _fuck it_ and agrees to help rob a bank.

**_I’m in._ **

\--

 

_“What about some extra brains?”_

_“What, you think I’m not good enough?”_

_“Oh, you’re good, but you need someone to suss out the loopholes.”_

-

They sit at table at the local coffee shop. Jackson takes a moment to flirt with the waitress before getting down to business.

“That’s her,” says Jackson finally as he points at a girl with strawberry blonde hair and a fire truck-red pout scribbling furiously on a college pad with one hand and tapping at a calculator as if it had somehow wronged her with the other. “Lydia Martin. She was in my year even though she’s about three years younger than me."

He passes his phone to Derek who reads the information on the screen.

“Sixteen, Aries. Graduated from Beacon Hills High School with honours and was the youngest class valedictorian since 1957. She is probably the greatest teenaged mathematical mind in South California. Brought BHHS to fame when she won the Mu Alpha Theta National Young Mathematician Award in her freshman year. Impressive.”

“I know,” says Jackson, his eyes travelling from the top of her head to her lacy bra peeking out from behind her hot pink tank top. “And she’s gotten hotter.”

Derek rolls his eyes at that last sentence and at Jackson in general.

“So she’s good with numbers. What makes her good at grand theft?”

“She siphoned off nearly a hundred thousand dollars from one of her lecturers when he gave her a shitty grade because she wouldn’t sleep with him. And then she threatened to report him for sexual harassment when he tried to sue her. Basically she’s evil, but in a good way.”

“Ah,” says Derek. “Can she plan an actual physical bank heist, though?”

x

“Can you plan a bank heist?”

Lydia looks up from her calculations with one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised at an angle so sharp it could cut paper. She studies the man in front of her. Good looking. But too old.

“It depends,” she says sharply. “Which bank? Who’s involved? Will I get a cut? When do you want the plans? Also, who the hell are you? You’re pretty, but I have mace.”

Derek smiles his winning smile, all his teeth on display; the kind Lydia thinks he must use on beguiled housewives.

“I’m Derek. You probably know that boy over there; he was in your year. So I know that you’re fine with taking other people’s money, am I right?”

She looks over at Jackson slyly and smiles. She remembers him, oh yes she does. Jackson Whittemore, the boy who paid her with a shiny diamond ring for helping him cheat on a calculus final. She was fifteen, and boys with diamonds are hard to resist. (boys with diamonds are hard to resist at _any_ age, admit it.) Everyone else had only offered her money.

“Ah, Jackson. Well, Derek,” she says, looking back at him and drawing out the syllables of his name. “I personally have no qualms whatsoever towards stealing people’s money, but what’s in it for me?”

“Shits and giggles?”

“Ha ha- no seriously,” she replies. “What makes this bank heist so special that I should help you? I’m a busy person, on the verge of breaking the record for most terms on the Dean’s List while completing my double degree in mathematics and applied science in one of the top universities in the country. Planning a bank heist sounds like too much of a hassle if all I don’t get anything special out of it, no?”

“You’ll get a cut-“

“Fifty percent-”

“No.”

“Then I’m not in.”

“Ten percent. Out of a hundred and fifty million.”

“Fifteen million. That’s it?”

“You can jump Jackson’s bones if you want.”

“I’m sixteen.”

“I’m asking you to rob a bank.”

She considers this for a while. Okay so maybe it would be fun to get some easy money and get herself a Jackson. And besides, even on scholarships, tuition fees are a bitch and a half.

“Okay.”

\--

 

_“Who’ve you got for distraction?”_

_“I know some twins.”_

_“Seriously, Jackson, right now?”_

_“No, seriously! Twins!”_

-

It’s raining, the sky bleak and grey above them as Jackson and Derek watch from a building as a boy and a pregnant girl steal a man’s car.

The girl clutches her swell belly and screams as the boy flags a car down.

The driver winds down his window as the boy babbles.

“Dude, dude you gotta help me out man! I was walking this chick back to the halfway and then her water broke!” he yells, hysteria in his voice. “We gotta get her to the hospital!”

The man looks at them wide-eyed with terror.

“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?!” he asks as he gets out of his car and opens the back door.

“I- I can’t afford it,” she moans in between pants. “I’ve been out on the streets. They kicked me out when they- when they found out. I’m supposed to give birth next week at the Centre.”

The man looks at her and notices tatty brown hair and her bruised bare feet.

“Oh my God,” he says as he helps the boy lift her into the car. “Here, quickly, quickly.”

The moment the girl is seated in the backseat, the boy shoves the man out of the way and slams the door shut.

“Thanks, man,” he says, drawing a gun and pointing it at the man.

“Hey, hey- what the hell?!” the man yells, putting his hands up in instinct, eyes wide.

“Thanks for the ride!” says the girl sweetly, rolling down the rear window as she pulls out her own gun from her back pocket. The man scrambles backwards into a parking meter.

The boy jumps into the driver’s seat as they drive off, flips the bird at the man on the ground. He starts angrily and gets to his feet, pulling out his phone, presumably calling the police.

Jackson smirks at Derek as they leave, because _twins_ , man. They can do _anything._

X

“Isaac, Erica,” Derek says in greeting as the siblings climb out of the stolen car, the girl shedding her brown wig to reveal long blonde curls and the boy taking off his cap and his glasses.

They freeze and pull out their guns and point them at Derek, who leans on the hood of his own car, parked outside the abandoned subway station where they live.

“Erica and Isaac Lahey-Reyes. Born October fifteenth, nineteen years old. Mother died of pneumonia when you were twelve, brother and father in separate car crashes when you were fourteen and sixteen, you’ve been living here since then. Isaac you enjoy reading, Feist and BMX and you also work part time at the vet’s clinic under the name Timothy Ronders. Erica you like vanilla and knitting and cooking, how sweet.”

“Who sent you?” demands Isaac.

“First of all, you can put your guns down, because I know they’re fakes. Secondly, good job with the make-up. Thirdly, calm down. I’m not here to rat you out. I’m here to offer you a job.”

Isaac and the girl- Erica, lower their guns as Jackson appears from behind the corner.

“Isaac, Erica, this is Derek,” he says smoothly, ruffling his hand through Isaac’s curly blonde hair. Isaac glowers at Jackson and snaps at his hand like a dog as he pulls it away from his head.

“Jackson, what the hell?” growls Erica.

“How does fifteen million dollars sound to you?” asks Derek, smiling.

“Sounds like a faery castle in the sky,” says Isaac.

“But it’s not, ‘cause we’re going to rob a bank, and you’ll help us,” says Jackson.

“How do we know we can trust you?” asks Erica.

“You can trust us not to rat you out on the stunt you just pulled back there. Grand theft auto is no small matter,” says Jackson. “And besides, when have I ever screwed you over?”

Erica opens her mouth to speak but Isaac cuts her off.

“Fine. But fifteen million apiece.”

Derek nods. He pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to Isaac.

“This is the address, the time and the date. Be there.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These were actually the first bits I wrote.


	3. complications expectations making things go boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get cracking.
> 
> Trigger warning for past attempted rape of girl by her grandfather, familial unbelief of said event.   
> If scenes like this are triggering/potentially triggering, feel free to read up to where Allison calls Jackson and then skip ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had it saved and written but I didn't want to post it straight away cause I hadn't finished the next part (for fear of becoming one of those people who abandon their projects.)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. :)

The rumble of Stiles’ jeep fights with the sound of the music he _tries_ to blare on a cheap pair of speakers he bought last year at a jumble sale (they were _cheap_ okay?) as he drives up the gravel road to the address Derek gave him.

“Helloooo?” he says to no one in particular as he wanders into the warehouse.

“Stiles?” he hears Derek say from somewhere above him. He looks up to see him leaning over the railing on a metal balcony, wearing a smile and a white wife beater and jeans.

“It is me, Stiles Stilinski the Great. I have come to grace your meeting with my presence,” Stiles says, bowing low, the hood of his red sweater flopping over onto his short brown haired head.

“Very funny, Stiles.”

Derek leads him to what Stiles immediately deems as their “bank heisting den”.

It’s what used to be a large meeting room in yet another (because Beacon Hills apparently has a lot of businesses run out of business) abandoned warehouse that Derek sniffed out and had cleared out. Jackson fixed up the phone lines and the electricity. Or rather- paid someone to do it for him.

The left half of the room houses three large desks with swivelling office chairs, a conference table in front of a projection screen in the right half, and in the middle two sofas; a small coffee table; a flat screen plasma TV; a coffee maker on top of a small fridge and a microwave.

Stiles dumps his knapsack onto the floor with a small thump.

“Very nice,” he says, launching himself onto a soft orange chaise lounge that clashes with the giant blue L-shaped sofa next to it.

“Figured we might as well get it comfortable, we’re going to be here a lot these next few weeks,” says the blonde boy Stiles remembers as Jackson, patting the blue sofa. “Stiles, right?”

Stiles tilts his head and studies Jackson for a moment, recalling information he’d discovered last night. “You’re Jackson Whitmore, born 15th June, you have a trust fund of roughly three point seven million dollars in the bank and you’ve been subscribed to Top Gear and Playboy magazine since you were fifteen. You also used to take my lunch money in junior high,” he replies, to the amusement of the others gathered around the large room.

Jackson raises his eyebrow at Stiles and sizes him up for a moment. “You’re right, he _is_ good,” he says finally, putting on his favourite smirk.

“Stiles, this is Erica and Isaac,” Derek says, gesturing at a blonde girl and a blonde boy wearing matching sneers and black leather jackets. “I think you may know Scott and Lydia,” he says, pointing at a boy Stiles remembers was sent to juvie and a strawberry blonde girl he once fancied back when they were in the same grade, which lasted about two months before she had skipped forward once again, something about the curriculum being too easy.

“Everyone, Stiles is our hacker. Stiles, Erica and Isaac will be distraction and are arranging fake ID’s for all of us, Jackson’s handling finance, anything you need to buy you tell him; Scott is driving and Lydia is the other set of brains.”

Stiles nods at all of them, making a note to do some cursory checks on them later.

“So what do you do? Make sure we all get to bed on time?” he asks with a deadpan expression, but Derek can hear the teasing tones bubbling underneath.

Derek’s eyebrows knit together and he feels like blowing a raspberry at Stiles… which he would have done if it were just the two of them. He quashes the childish urges and says, quite maturely (if he should say so himself) “ _I’m_ the mastermind. Obviously.”

Nobody says anything for a second and Stiles can just _taste_ the _awkward_ in the air. It makes Stiles snort. Jackson and Lydia roll their eyes and it’s almost scary how synchronised it is. Isaac and Erica raise their eyebrows and Scott just pretends that the ceiling is fascinating.

Derek frowns. This was not how this was supposed to go.

“Well?” he says, eventually. “Get to work.”

X

“The Thomas National Bank. Founded in 1886 by Arthur Thomas in Chicago when he moved there to marry a singer by the name of Keira Robertson,” says Lydia, handing out thick files to the group of bank-robbers-to-be now seated around the fancy glass topped conference table; the results of two hours’ worth of research and ordering people around to fetch her bobby pins and to print things out as she pinned and stuck things onto a blank wall that was once bare but is now covered in papers and pictures and bits of pink-coloured string.

Stiles had deemed it beautiful and Lydia had glared him into the ground.

Jackson was particularly impressed with the ordering around and the glaring. Also with the fact that she only had to read everything once and was currently relaying all the information in their files to them from memory.

 “-since then, the bank has grown from a small local bank to a national establishment with branches in almost every state in America and is on the cusp of going international.

“The Beacon Hills branch was opened last year, a tribute to Arthur Thomas’ hometown by his great-great-great grandson Gerard Thomas. If you haven’t seen the building, you either live under a rock or have been in prison, or in solitary confinement for the past five years.

“As of now, each branch of the bank has its own security system. The BH branch is touted to have the third most secure vaults in all of California. The blueprints are currently unavailable, at least until Stiles can hack them out, right?”

Stiles nods. (Meekly.)

“For now, we’ll start roughing out a plan to get us inside the first layer of security,” says Derek from his seat. “From what we know so far, managers have the freedom to the back of the bank. Jackson, this is where you come in.”

X

 “‘James Whittaker’?” That was the best you could come up with, hacker boy? Couldn’t you think of a name that doesn’t sound _just like mine_?” scoffs Jackson a week later as he picks up the ID Stiles slides onto his desk which he now shares with Lydia. (Her choice, he swears.) “Also, what the hell is wrong with my face on this thing? I look like a friggin’ lizard creature or something,” he pouts, squinting at the small photo of someone who looks like him but can’t possibly _be_ him (he’s a thousand times prettier than that, geez) staring back from the plastic card. 

Stiles scowls down at him.

“Wasn’t me who got it made, it was Isaac. All I did was make sure you had some background that checked out. Anyway, you want the job or not?”

“I don’t _want_ it, but we kinda _need_ it, don’t we?” says Jackson, stating the obvious.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Anyway, _James_. You’ve just graduated from Cal Tech’s Econ and Management program with honours and you’ve been assigned by HQ as the newest member of the BH branch as a manager. You start tomorrow. Isn’t that fun?” he says.

Jackson glowers at him.

X

Jackson straightens his tie for what he thinks must be the fiftieth time today, his eye on the lookout for security cameras and anything of the like.

So far his day has been trailing behind a stout, balding man wearing an ill-fitting suit with the bushiest eyebrows he’s seen in a while named George A. Kestor (who is apparently his new boss), as he shows him around the behemoth of a building that houses the bank and its vaults. There are three, one holding cash (the one they’re targeting), another holding what he makes out to be gold bars (oh God, how _tempting_. But _heavy_. Not to mention _really damn hard_ to sell), and another holding something that nobody he’s asked knows what.

He doesn’t know for sure yet, but they’ve got a whole lot ground to cover if they’re going to get to them and even more plans to lay out if they’re going to get _into_ them much, less get behind the counters and through the doors.

Thankfully, the key pass that Kestor gives him works on every door he’s tried so far, to his relief.

They finally arrive back in the front of the building, where people and tellers chatter and write and type under the sound of what Jackson recognises as Tchaikovsky, which plays serenely overhead. Kestor wishes him all the best and returns to his office

The tellers streaming in and out from the customer service area eye him with interest but mostly leave him alone as he sits at the desk provided, looking over stacks of paper with words and figures that give him a headache. He texts Lydia and tells her she’d better be ready to give him some one-on-one tutoring on all this, because he sure as hell doesn’t know how any of this works. At least, he doesn’t think he does. And if he did he’s forgotten anyway. College is just a distraction from the girls, okay?

She replies with a snarky one liner about sending puppies to do a wolf’s work and he rolls his eyes at his phone but feels a little trill of warmth roll down his back.

He figures that sitting at the desk pretending to do paperwork for an hour is long enough and gets up to get to the back and have another poke around—

Only his key pass doesn’t work.

He waves it over the scanner several times but the gate remains shut tight.

Figures, doesn’t it?

He considers his situation. Maybe the pass is faulty? Or maybe it’s just not meant to work, which would suck. He prays for the former as he knocks on Kestor’s office door and pokes his head in.

“Mr Kestor, sir?”

Kestor looks up from his computer and raises a bushy eyebrow.

“What do you need, James?”

“Mr Kestor, sorry to bother you, but my pass doesn’t work. I need to get to the back for a bit, I left a set of keys in the back staff lounge when we visited it this morning and I need to get something from my car. It’s kinda urgent.”

 “Ah, Mr Whittaker, I forgot to tell you. Only security personnel have passes to get through the gate. You can get one of them to help you.”

Jackson nods and thanks him.

This is _real_ nice.

X

“So you’re saying that only the security guards have any access at all to get to the back at any given time?”

“Well, technically, _they’re_ not allowed back there but only _they_ have the power to grant anyone access to the back.”

“What are the necessary qualifications for security guards?” asks Derek.

“First of all, they need a gun licence, so we’re gonna need someone comfortable with guns. Real guns,” he adds as Erica starts to raise her hand.

“I can do you one better,” says Scott, slowly. “You remember Allison, the girl I was seeing before juvie, Jacks?”

Jackson gives him a blank stare.

“I know a lot of chicks, Scott-”

“Didn’t expect you to remember her, but she gets back into town this week.”

X

Allison Argent is nineteen and a self-proclaimed psycho-bitch.  She likes dominatrix boots and fishnet nylons. Her father owns the local guns and ammunition shop. Big guns? No problem.

At this moment she is in the local gun range, busy shooting an unfortunately named “Mr Teddy”, a teddy bear- full of her favourite brand of homemade nine mils. He’s going to need extensive surgery when she’s done. It’s not going to be a hard procedure; he’s had it once a month since Allison was sixteen, anyway.

She just likes shooting things okay?

“Allison?”

She fires off two more rounds before turning around to see two guys standing behind her, one with dark curly hair and a crooked jaw, and one with styled blonde hair and the biggest shit eating smirk she’s ever had the displeasure of seeing.

“Hey, Scott,” she says, giving him a kiss on the cheek before stepping back and eyeing Jackson wearily.

“Jackson Whittemore. I remember you. You told Danny Mahealani that _I_ gave you pink eye. Too afraid to admit you got it from Mrs Lee?” she asks scathingly and blows at the muzzle of her gun. “How’ve you been?”

Jackson smirks and Scott raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“No, I will not put on anything made of fake black leather and no, I will not brandish a whip just because you have some weird kink and Danny won’t do it for you. Scott here, on the other hand-”

“Danny’s getting married,” says Jackson, smirking. “Nice guy, sells insurance. They’re heading to New York next month to get it officiated. They’re both pretty and they’re going to adopt adorable little Vietnamese babies. And give them names like Madox and Shiloh. You didn’t- you didn’t get an invite?”

Allison scowls.

“What do you want?”

“I need you to pose as a security guard at a bank while we rob it of a shitload of money.”

“Scott, are you in on this?”

“Yeah, I’m driving,” says Scott.

“You sure it’s a good idea? Remember what happened the last time you worked with this douche?”

“Yeah. But it’s a lot of money. I need it, Allison,” says Scott sheepishly.

“Sounds like fun. Still no.”

“You’ll get a cut too. Also it’s the Thomas National Bank. Who wouldn’t want to take the piss out of a dickhead like Gerard Thomas, huh?” says Jackson, grinning.

Allison stills, her face goes blank.

“No.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun. You’ll get to wear a uni-“

“I said no,” snaps Allison. “Get out of my face, before I decide to use yours face as target practice.”

“Geez, okay, okay,” says Jackson quickly, throwing up his arms as if surrendering. “Here, this is my number. Call me if you decide to change your mind about this life altering adventure of a lifetime.”

He pulls a white card out of his jacket pocket and puts it onto the small table next to Allison’s ammo and walks out of the range.

“I don’t know why you still hang out with him, Scott,” she says.

“I- I really need the money,” he says, frowning. “I need it for my mom.”

His statement hangs in the air. She presses her forehead onto his for a brief moment.

“Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” he asks, finally.

“Yeah,” she says, as he kisses her cheek and turns to leave as well.

It isn’t until she’s shot ninety percent of the stuffing out of Mr Teddy’s head that she looks at the card.

She slips it into her bag as she leaves.

x

It’s two days later, in the middle of the night when Jackson’s phone rings.

It’s an unknown number but the voice that crackles through from the other end is familiar. He smirks and he nods as if the person on the other side can see him.

“Beacon Bean, nine o’clock, okay. I’ll be there.”

x

“I want in.”

Jackson eyes Allison warily from across the table.

“This isn’t because Scott told you that he-“

“No, Scott has nothing to do with this.”

“And it isn’t because I said you’d be wearing a uni-“

“Gerard is my grandfather.”

“Oh.”

“Argent is my mother’s name,” she says slowly. “He tried to rape me, when I was in junior high.”

“Oh. Are you sure this is a good ide-“

“I want to give him the hell he gave me, take something away from him like how he tried to take away from me. Do you understand what it’s like? To be thirteen and not have your father believe you when you tell him your grandfather tried to rape you? No? Well I do. It’s like living in a black hole with no air. You can’t. Breathe. Every time I saw my grandfather’s face when he came over for dinner was like a wedge being shoved into our relationship, because I couldn’t look him in the eye and my father couldn’t believe his own daughter was such a rude little bitch. He was my dad. He was supposed to believe me. Protect me. But I don’t blame him, I really don’t.”

She takes a shaky breath and a sip of her coffee. Her mind flashes un-helpful images. Her grandfather. Her father. Her mother. The grey dress with the sparkly butterflies.

“It’s Gerard’s fault. He played the frail old man card and of course that’s who my father believed. You don’t lie to your children in the Thomas household, apparently. And my father- my father wanted so hard to believe that his _own father_ wouldn’t _lie_ to him, would stick to their _code_ that he didn’t believe _me._ So I’ve decided. I want in. I don’t care about the money. I want retribution. You know you need some fire power on your side. You need me. You know it and I know it.”

Jackson is silent, but he nods.

“Does Scott know about this?”

“No, he _can’t_ know. He can never know.”

Jackson nods again.

He pulls out a notebook from his knapsack and scribbles down some details.

“This is our base. Listen out for the sounds of Justin Bieber. Our hacker likes blasting it from his sound system.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter may be a long time coming, still busy as a bee. 
> 
> Any and all feedback is encouraged! <3


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